


A Study in Pink, of a Different Sort

by Ginger_Cat



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff fluff and more fluff, Gen, Giving Birth, Sherlock Interacting with Children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 20:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5062510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginger_Cat/pseuds/Ginger_Cat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary goes in to labour, and John is nowhere to be found... which quite limits her options for delivery room companions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Pink, of a Different Sort

**Author's Note:**

> Just a fluffy, happy short. Hope you enjoy :)

                “John, it’s happening, ring me back!”

                Sherlock was not the type to leave lengthy voicemails, or even voicemails in general. He texted if at all possible; it allowed for him to maintain his image of aloofness, at least regarding interpersonal communication. To him, actually _calling_ someone else was a sign of neediness, of urgency for human connection—and leaving a voicemail was just plain desperation.

                Well, he was desperate, all right.

                Mary had come for a quick visit to go over a few particulars for John’s upcoming birthday—they were taking him to Munich for the weekend—when she’d suddenly locked eyes with Sherlock and a burst of water splashed down on the floor from under her skirt.

                Sherlock had just stared at her, uncomprehending. “The baby’s coming,” she’d said, surprisingly calm. “We have to get to the hospital.”

                His first reaction was to retort with “What do you mean, ‘we?’” Why did _he_ have to go? He could just stay and plan the rest of John’s trip while she handled the whole “giving birth” thing. But then he began to make sense of the situation and realized that there would not be any trip for John’s birthday; John would be too busy taking care of a newborn.

                The contractions had started not long after her water had broken, and Mary’s calm demeanor had vanished. “Get a cab, you clot!” she’d groaned at him as he stood there, helpless. He’d blinked himself back to reality and grabbed her arm to help her out of the flat. It hadn’t even occurred to him, as it normally would have, to yell at Mrs. Hudson to clean up the floor.

                Now, in the cab, Mary attempted to impale Sherlock’s arm with her fingernails as she moaned in agony. “Is that all you’re going to tell him?” she huffed, a sweat already broken out over her forehead. “Aren’t you going to tell him _what’s_ happening? Or that you’re _with_ me? Or _where_ we’re—“ she cried out again, her pain abruptly ending her train of thought.

                “John, what I meant was Mary is in labour, we’ve a cab and we’re off to the hospital—“

                “Argh!” Mary groaned, her grip digging deep into Sherlock’s muscle tissue.

                “Argh!” he yelled back, the phone still recording his message.

                “ _Oh my God_ ,” Mary whispered, “I think it’s coming.”

                Sherlock rounded on her, wild-eyed. “You will not give birth in this taxi, Mary. You will _not!_ ” Then, back into the phone, “JOHN!”

                “FUCK!” Mary bellowed, making the cabby flinch. Sherlock dropped the phone to pry her hands off of his arm.

                “Honestly, Mary, you are about to permanently injure me—“

                “You’re bloody well right I am, if you don’t find my husband before this child comes out!”

                Sherlock thought he’d never been more frightened of her, not even when she’d shot him in the chest.

                They made it to the hospital, Sherlock helping her out of the cab, calling for the paramedics; they ran out to meet him, pushing a wheelchair. Mary sat down but kept her grip on Sherlock’s sleeve. “You’re coming with me,” she snarled, dragging him through the front doors as the lot of them hurried into the building.

                Suddenly, Sherlock was in the delivery room, with a full view of Mary’s bare bottom half, surrounded by nurses and bright lights. Mary was still maintaining her hold on Sherlock’s shirt, and she twisted it in the throes of another pain. “Not the shirt, Mary!” Sherlock yelped, grabbing her. She let go of it and clung to his hand instead.

                “It’s time to start pushing!” sang a young, bright-faced doctor, practically skipping into the room. _What’s she so cheerful about? What part of this is cheerful?_ Sherlock wondered. He pulled out his mobile to try John again and made for the door.

                Mary looked up at him, her eyes large and round and scared. “Sherlock. Don’t leave me.”

                There was something about the way she said it, about the way she was vulnerable, afraid, and looking to him for support—Sherlock stuffed the phone back into his pocket and set his face. “I won’t. I’m going to stay here, Mary.”

                Mary began to cry.

                The doctor was humming a tune, still smiling stupidly, rinsing her hands in the sink. Sherlock’s anger flared. “Would you shut _up_ and wipe that infuriating smile off of your face! This woman is about to push an entire human being out of her body. Now, get down there, and help her!”

                The doctor blinked at him, open-mouthed.

                “Are you an idiot?” he spat. “Did you even _graduate_ medical school? Or do I need to find someone who actually knows what they’re doing?”

                The doctor turned bright red, her smile completely gone. “That’s quite enough!” she retorted, grumbling to herself as she moved to sit at Mary’s knees. “Alright, Mummy, push!” she instructed, avoiding Sherlock’s glare. Sherlock turned back to Mary and nodded his head.

                She pushed.

                Sherlock glanced down the other end of her, where the doctor’s head could no longer be seen above her knees and hospital gown. “Push!” came another order, from the invisible doctor. Mary pushed again, screaming now.

                “John,” she sobbed, throwing her head back and staring at the ceiling in agony. “I want _John_.”

                “He’s coming, Mary,” Sherlock lied, trying to soothe her.

                “Push!” yelled the doctor.

                “I can’t,” Mary wailed, closing her eyes and crying harder.

                The doctor’s head popped up. “Encourage her, Daddy!”

                “She just said she _can’t_ ,” Sherlock argued back, not bothering to correct her calling him the father. “There’s got to be something wrong, why don’t you _use_ whatever medical skills you’ve—“

                “She _can_ , and she will! Now tell her to push, goddamn it!”

                Sherlock turned back to Mary, rather bewildered. “Push, Mary,” he said to her. She looked into his eyes again and did as she was told.

                “She’s crowning! Almost done, Mary, one more big one!”

                “Sherlock!” Mary sobbed, their hands white-knuckled and slick with sweat against one another’s.

                “You’ve got this, Mary,” he said to her, quietly. “You’ve got this.” Mary’s tears ran down her cheeks and onto her neck. “If anyone can do this, it’s you.”

                “Arrrgaaaahhhh!” she groaned, her neck arching forward as she pushed again.

                Suddenly, there was a high-pitched scream from between Mary’s legs. “There she is!” cried the doctor, her face bright and sunny again. She held the baby up for Mary and Sherlock to see. It was red, almost purple, and covered in slime. Its face was a mass of ugly wrinkles as it cried and cried, flinging its little arms and legs about in what probably seemed like very cold, very thin air.

                “Annalise,” Mary croaked, smiling weakly.

                The doctor moved the baby to a soft tray to examine it, and Sherlock bobbed his head back and forth, trying to see what they were doing. “Go,” Mary said, tired, sweaty, and happy. “Report back.”

                He left her side and strode over to the table, where Annalise was still wailing pathetically as the doctor poked and prodded her. “Doesn’t that—you’re hurting her!” Sherlock screeched over the cries, and the doctor scowled at him.

                “I’m checking her vitals,” she explained, tersely. “Just hold on a moment!”

                “Now the afterbirth, Mary,” a voice was saying behind him. “Come on, push it out.”

                “There’s _more?_ ” she moaned.

                Sherlock was about to turn back to her when he suddenly felt a weight in his arms. He looked down to see the doctor putting the baby there. “There she is, Daddy! So far, so healthy!”

                Sherlock stared at the little bundle of flesh and tears, swathed in a soft pink blanket, its face grotesque and only vaguely human-like. But all of a sudden, he thought he saw a flash of John’s frustrated expression. He knew it well, of course. Something came over him, then, a feeling that he didn’t recognize. He felt… small. Humbled, in some way.

                “Make sure you support her head,” said the doctor, adjusting the baby in his arms. She was friendly again, noticing the change in his attitude. Sherlock did as he was told, suddenly needing instruction, deferring to her apparent expertise. This, _babies_ , this was something he knew nothing of.

                “Good, you’re doing wonderfully,” the doctor praised, and moved back to help Mary.

                Sherlock began to sway a little, absentmindedly, still staring down at the child. She’d finally grown quiet, and he could see her breathing slow down as she began to fall asleep.

                “Annalise,” he said, testing out the name. “Anna.”

                It seemed to suit her.

***

                Two hours after Anna was born, John burst into Mary’s hospital room, disheveled and frantic, and Mary awoke with a start. “John.”

                He went to her side at once. “I’m so sorry,” he began. “I’m so—“

                Mary quickly shushed him. “It’s alright. It’s over, and she’s healthy, and oh, John, she’s _beautiful_ —“

                “Where is she?” John asked, looking around the room.

                “Sherlock took her for a walk.”

                John’s eyes widened. “ _Sherlock?_ ”

                Mary smiled. “Yes, Sherlock.”

                “You let Sherlock alone with our baby? He’s probably got her in the morgue already, looking at dead bodies…” John’s face grew pale at the thought.

                “I’m sure he hasn’t,” she scolded. “I think he just went down the hall.”

                John gazed toward the door. “You’re feeling alright, then?” he asked, turning back and putting his hand on her head. “I can’t believe I wasn’t here. I absolutely hate myself, when I think of you having to be in here alone—“

                “Oh,” Mary interrupted, “I wasn’t alone. Sherlock was with me the whole time.” Her eyes twinkled.

                “Yeah, right,” said John.

                “No, he was,” she insisted. “You should have seen him, he was a proper coach. Ordering me to push, yelling at the doctors to do their jobs—I don’t believe the baby would have been born without him.”

                John looked at her, not quite believing it. “Well, now… well. Sounds like he’s had quite a day.” He glanced at the door again.

                Mary smiled. “That he has. You’d better go and relieve him,” she suggested.

                “You’ll be alright?” he asked, turning back to her.

                “Of course I will. Probably go back to my nap, while you’re gone.” She shimmied down into the covers.

                “Alright then,” said John. He leaned forward and kissed the top of her head, then left the room and started down the hall. He was still trying to play out the ridiculous birthing scene in his mind when he rounded a rather deserted corner and suddenly heard the unmistakable murmur of Sherlock’s voice over the next hallway. Excitement fluttered in his gut—he was going to see his baby for the first time—but as he drew closer to the next bend, he realized that Sherlock wasn’t speaking.

                He was _singing_.

                John slowed his pace. _Sherlock, singing? Have I ever heard him sing, before?_ He couldn’t think of it. He moved forward, practically tiptoeing, creeping up to the corner. He poked his head around the wall and saw Sherlock down at the far end of the hallway, staring at something in his arms, humming in his deep, tenor voice, rocking back and forth across the floor. John felt a sudden warmth in his chest and smiled. He stayed behind the wall for some time, not wanting to interrupt the moment.

                But Sherlock, observant as ever, suddenly stopped singing and called to John over his shoulder. “Come and meet her, then,” he said.

                John stepped out from behind the corner, embarrassed a little, as Sherlock turned around and looked at him. It was a bit odd, seeing the detective dressed in his sharp black trousers and sleek button-up shirt, standing in the hall with a fluffy pink blanket in his arms. He walked up and peered down at the bundle.   

                She was tiny, _so_ tiny, her little nose and lips and chin all scrunched together as she slept, her eyebrows moving up and down, changing expressions faster than he could blink. Her teensy hand was clenched round one of Sherlock’s slender, white fingers. “Hello,” John cooed, softly, reaching to stroke her cheek. He glanced up at Sherlock, who was still looking at the baby, and the warmth again came in a wave over his heart as he registered Sherlock’s expression—he was entirely smitten.

                Just then, the baby stretched back her head and gave a little yawn, her miniature lips opening to reveal toothless gums. Then her face relaxed into sleep again.

                “Oh my God,” said John, breathlessly.

                “Quite adorable,” Sherlock agreed. They looked at each other. “Would you like to…” Sherlock offered the baby towards John.

                John looked down at his daughter, snug and sleeping. “You keep on,” he said. “But let’s go back to Mary’s room.”

                They shuffled back to the room, John stealing sideways glances at his best friend and the baby. Sherlock’s faced was flushed with fatigue, and he was walking slowly and very carefully. “You know, she’s not made of glass,” John ribbed. “You can relax a little.” He expected Sherlock to retort in his own defense, but Sherlock just frowned and tried to walk a little more loosely.

                When they got back to the room, they came in slowly in case Mary was sleeping. “Hello!” she called, clearly awake.

                “Look who’s back!” John announced, as Sherlock followed him through the door.

                Mary laid her head back against her pillow and smiled. “Have you held her yet?” she asked John.

                “He’s about to, now,” Sherlock answered, moving to transfer the child to John’s arms. “Now, support her head,” he instructed, showing him, and John and Mary exchanged smiles over Sherlock’s shoulder.

                John’s smile began to tremble as he peered down at Anna’s sleeping form. He looked up at Sherlock, who was standing across from him, arms hanging awkwardly with the loss of the baby’s weight, and saw there was some kind of poignancy on Sherlock’s face—but it was gone after a moment, and Sherlock cleared his throat. “I should be off, now,” he said, reaching over to grab his overcoat from the chair. “Goodbye, Mary.”

                She held out her hand for him, and he walked to her and took it in his own. She squeezed it. “Thank you, Sherlock,” she said, warmly. He nodded once in response, then let her go and passed back by John and Anna.

                “Say goodbye,” John whispered in Anna’s ear, picking up her little arm and waving it in Sherlock’s direction. Sherlock briefly touched the top of her head before saying his final goodbyes and swooping out of the room.

                “He’s very much in love with her, isn’t he?” asked Mary, when he had gone.

                John stared down at his baby girl, and smiled. “Yes," he said. "And so am I.”

_The End._

 


End file.
